


Come speak to me, Words that I couldn't say

by MartineBishop



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Heavy episode references, Misunderstandings, Series 2 episode 8, Slow Burn, murder case, series 3 episode 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-04 06:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14014236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartineBishop/pseuds/MartineBishop
Summary: Alternative ending to Series 3, Episode 1, and then some more.Richard Poole only very nearly escapes death, and Camille decides that this might be her clue to stop beating around the bush. Unfortunately, she's very French and Richard's very English and a series of misunderstandings has to be navigated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fiction in a sullen moment to get back at that stupid Series 3 Episode 1. I continued writing it at work, simply as a way not to die of boredom. I never had a plan for it or an ending in mind, so here you go, a little light fluff a little murder mystery and a Not-Dead-Richard. I am, however, rather content how it came out =).

The world slowed down and then stopped. Sounds melted together until she could hear only static with a horrible tinnitus ring that overlaid it all. Only when Dwayne grabbed her arms did Camille register that she had sunken to her knees. Her body disobeyed her; her legs wouldn’t support her weight. Someone wailed horribly and she only noticed it was her when she ran out of breath.  
     Camille hadn’t believed it. She had categorially pushed the possibility out of her head. It was a misunderstanding. They had mixed something up. Perhaps another Englishman had died, another Richard. By the pool. Hence the mix-up. Or Richard had engineered some ruse to convict some suspect. Camille was slightly angry that he hadn’t let her in on the plan. Well, she’d have a word with him later, when they had cleared this up.  
     Richard Poole lay sprawled in the lounge chair, eyes closed, body limp and seemingly more relaxed than she had ever seen him. Were it not for the stain colouring his shirt a deep, wet crimson, he might have simply fallen asleep; with an empty cup of tea by his side and a book in his lap. It was so Richard – bringing a book to a party.  
     Camille let Dwayne pull her close, balling her fists into his shirt like a lifeline. She doubted she could have supported her own weight. It was a curious sensation, with the world gone mute around her and her usually clever mind utterly unable to interpret the scene in front of her. The part of Camille that was clinically identifying a murder victim with a stab-wound kept slipping away to the back of her brain. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the slowly spreading stain that ate its way across Richard’s chest. His skin had gone almost as pale as his shirt.  
     Fidel rushed past her and knelt down beside Richard’s body. His hand shook as he pressed two fingers against the Inspector’s neck. Fidel closed his eyes and swallowed, steadying himself to gauge the pulse. Camille held her breath, and absently noticed that she didn’t feel Dwayne’s chest heave either. Seconds dragged past, sluggish and tormenting until Fidel lifted his head to them, anxiety in his eyes.  
     “I’m sor-“ he started, disappointment warring with anger. But then Fidel suddenly turned his head back to Richard. “No! Wait!” he breathed “I can still feel a pulse! Very, very faint but – no, it’s there, it’s there! He’s still alive!” Fidel scrambled to his feet and whipped out his phone. Seconds later, he had called the ambulance.  
      Camille still held her breath. Her eyes hadn’t left Richard and she let go of Dwayne to lunge towards him, landing on her knees next to the chair. His hand, lightly resting on the armrest, felt horribly cold as Camille covered it with her own. “Please don’t die” she whispered, and then his name dropped from her lips over and over. Richard’s old college friends had inched closer and mutely observed the scene. Camille didn’t care what they thought, or how she must look; Honoré’s DS broken down on bloodied knees next to her wounded Inspector. Her thumb traced along Richard’s wrist until she found his pulse, fluttering faintly like a tiny insect. She remained like this until she heard the ambulance’s sirens approach.

They didn’t let her ride in the car. Instead, Fidel climbed in after the paramedics and gave Dwayne a pointed look that clearly said ‘Take care of her’. The adrenaline, shock and grief began to fade gradually, but Camille still felt horribly shaky. She didn’t protest as Dwayne put an arm around her shoulder and coaxed her away from the crime scene. He had called the Commissioner for backup. When their colleagues arrived, Dwayne made them handle the lock-down of the house.  
     By the time Dwayne had driven them back to the police station, Camille had regained back most of her composure. Inside the station, she jugged back a glass of water for better measures and thought she mostly felt like herself again. Dwayne leaned against the doorframe and observed her.  
     Camille took a breath. “Car keys” she told him and held out her hand.  
     Dwayne lifted his eyebrows. “Are you sure you can drive without running into most of Honoré’s traffic?” he asked her skeptically.  
     “You can come with me, if you want”.  
     “Fidel said he’ll call as soon as the Chief’s out of surgery” Dwayne countered.  
     “Which could be any moment for all we know. And I want to be there. Dwayne. _Car keys_!” she snipped her fingers at him until the Officer tossed over the keys with a heavy sigh.  
     “I’ll come too” he said and hurried after Camille who was already halfway down the stairs.

Camille only ran over a red light but otherwise made it to the hospital without causing any accidents. “You should have come here directly, Dwayne!” Camille scolded him as she climbed out of the car and slammed the door. She hurried towards the entrance, not caring if the Officer would keep up. Pushing the door open without breaking stride, Camille walked up to the counter.  
     “DI Richard Poole. Stab wound. Came here with the ambulance a couple of minutes ago. How is he?” she nearly barked at the nurse who gave her a startled look. Camille drummed her fingers against the counter. The nurse must have recognized her as Detective Sergeant and only folded her lips in silent dismay as she checked her computer.  
     “He’s still in surgery with doctor Bergeron, _Madame_. I-I don’t know how long it’ll take …” she stammered and briefly gazed at the double-doors at the end of the corridor to her right.  
    “Fine. We’ll wait” Camille announced and walked to the chairs along the wall opposite of the counter.  
     “ _Bien sûr_ …” the nurse said but left Camille and Dwayne – who had settled down next to her – in peace.  
     Camille rested her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. She was tapping her left foot rapidly, her hands fidgeting with the clasp of her belt. If she hoped too hard that he would survive, and he didn’t, she knew the break-down would be worse than it had been at the house. But if she banned all hope, she would fall into that black hole immediately. Her mind was a suspended scale that tried not to tip in either direction, thus carefully void of any emotion. Not knowing how long the surgery would take made things even worse.  
     “Camille” Dwayne said quietly. With his hand, he stilled her nervous fingers. “A wound like that, it takes time. Come on, try to relax a little. He’ll make it. He’s so damned stubborn; he’ll cling to life like he clings to his ridiculous suits and ties”. Dwayne’s eyes were soft and kind. Suddenly, Camille was horribly glad that he was with her right now.  
     “I’m sorry I was so rude to you” she told him.  
    Dwayne shook his head and gave her hands a squeeze before he drew back. “Don’t mention it. He means a lot to us all. Besides, that’s what friends are for, ey?”.  
     Camille nodded silently.

The sun had set a while ago when the double-doors swung open and a man in a white coat emerged. Camille was on her feet a second before Dwayne. They were the only two people in the room except for the nurse, and the doctor made right for them.  
     “He’ll live, Sergeant Bordey” the man said before Camille could open her mouth. He held up a hand to stall her questions. “It was a close call, but he _will_ make it. The weapon that was clearly supposed to pierce the heart was deflected by his rib – which saved his life. It did tear through the pericardium, though, the sack that contains the heart”  
    “Is he awake?” Camille asked.  
    “DI Poole is in intensive care and still unconscious. He’s lost a lot of blood and will be weak and disoriented when he wakes. Most likely nauseous, too. Come back tomorrow, then I can tell you more”  
     “Thank you, doctor” Dwayne answered for her, pulling Camille away from the man before she could object. The doctor nodded and turned to the counter to speak with the nurse.  
      Disappointment of not being able to see Richard warred with relief about the good news. Camille let out a pent-up breath. The nervousness rushed out of her and she sank down slowly into the chair again. She ran a hand through her hair, doubling over. The entrance swung open suddenly, making her lift her head. Fidel came through, a relived smile on his drawn face.  
     “The hospital just called” he explained. He had changed out of his bloodied uniform and into a simple shirt and cargoes.  
     “We should go, Camille” Dwayne inclined his head towards the door. “It’s past midnight and we should all get some rest now. There’s nothing more we can do for the Chief”.  
     Camille gazed at the double-doors through which the doctor had come. Richard was through there, it was the only other way inside the hospital. She pictured him, pale and gaunt on a bed, rigged up with tubes and IVs. Despite his brilliant mind and stuck-up crankiness, Richard was a vulnerable man, in more than one way. He had trusted these four people enough to attend their party and feel safe there, when he hardly felt safe at his own shack. And one of them had almost literally stabbed him in the back. They had been his _friends_. Anger welled up in Camille. What kind of friends killed you heartlessly with an icepick?  
    “Be at the station at eight tomorrow” she told Dwayne and Fidel. “We have a case”.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I learned to appreciate one thing while I wrote this story, it’s that those years of French lessons at school finally paid off.

Three weeks later, Richard Poole decided he finally felt like a decent human being again. Or at least, like a decent Englishman. It still hurt when he adjusted his tie for the first time in what felt like an eternity, but he could bear it now. He shrugged into his jacket, wincing at the pain the movement caused him. Except for the padding underneath the band-aid that silhouetted slightly against his shirt, his own self in the mirror looked back at him as he knew it. Richard took a breath (which wasn’t such a good idea, as his heart protested noticeably) and picked up his briefcase.     

Three faces lit up in surprised smiles when Richard entered Honoré’s police station. Camille got up and rounded her desk. She placed her hands on her hips and gave him a skeptical once-over. “Are you sure you’re already well enough to come to work, Sir?” she asked him sternly, though the smile on her lips stayed.   
     “You don’t need to baby me, Camille. I assure you, I feel quite all right again” Richard replied and walked towards his own desk. He frowned down on it as he noticed the dust that had collected on its surface. “Don’t we pay a cleaning aid?” he muttered unhappily and used his briefcase to wipe away the dirt.  
     “I recall you being cranky like a two-year-old who ate too much cookie dough” Camille answered.   
    “I was stabbed through the _heart_ ” Richard retorted “That was a little more painful than overeating on raw cake”.  
    “You threw a bowl of soup at Fidel’s head. Sir.” Dwayne reminded him casually.  
    “And you threatened to have us suspended if we didn’t get your tea right” Camille added. “I’d say that’s classic two-year-old behavior”.   
    Richard sniffed and gave his team a dark look. “ _You_ try riding out a near-fatal wound and _then_ we can talk again” he muttered.   
     He punched the button to start his computer and opened his drawers to check if everything was still in place. When he looked up, Camille stood leaning over his desk, propped up on her hands. She watched him with her head cocked, her eyes intense.   
     It was this look - exactly this look - that had made DI Richard Poole board the plane at London Heathrow four weeks ago to return to Saint-Marie. The way Camille Bordey regarded people wasn’t even solely reserved for him, but he wanted to imagine that her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, that she visited him a few times more often in his shack than she would have to. And then there was that tiny kiss before he’d left for England for a week. It had burnt on his cheek throughout the flight. It had been a peck, innocent and meaningless. He still felt like a fool for it, even more so after the attack. If he had stayed in England, he wouldn’t have been wounded. And yet here he was – still in Saint-Marie. Still hopelessly drawn to his Sergeant.   
    “I’m glad you’re back, Sir” Camille said softly. Richard nodded curtly and averted his eyes. He was lost when she was like this, stranded in unknown territory that he was too scared to navigate.  
     Richard squinted into his computer and let his eyes roam over the many unread e-mails. He sighed. At least this would keep him busy and his mind off the pain for half a day.   
     He was impressed (and, frankly, a little jealous) that Camille, Fidel and Dwayne had cracked the case basically without his help. His mother’s package had arrived while he was still in the hospital, too weak to speak more than a few words at a time. He had provided what help he could, but Camille had pieced together the evidence mostly on her own in the end. Before Richard was even able to get out of bed, ‘Sasha’ Moore and the rest of his old squad had already left the island – two in handcuffs, and two in disbelieve.   
     Angela had visited him before her flight back to England. But he had still been unconscious then. When the nurses had told him, he was secretly glad he hadn’t been awake to talk to her. His team had of course filled him in on every detail of the case. Unfortunately, that also meant they had to dissect mercilessly his relationships with Sasha, Angela, James and Roger. Perhaps it was better, in the end, that he hadn’t been with Camille and the rest when they cracked the puzzle.   
     Richard glanced over his shoulder at the box that stood behind his desk. It was the package he had his mother send over with the evidence that would ultimately uncover Helen’s ruse. It contained very personal items; photo albums, his diaries from the time at the college. And Camille had leafed through all of it, had probably read every single page and scrutinized over every single picture of him. She had had to – otherwise she wouldn’t have found out about Helen and Sasha. It had been Camille’s job, plain and simple as that.  
    And yet, Richard felt stripped bare. His feelings for the real Sasha Moore had been crucial for the case, but that also meant that Camille now knew that he had pined for _years_ after a woman who had no interest in him. And all the while, another woman had kept _her_ love for _him_ not much of a secret; Angela had after all confessed as much to Camille.   
    Richard forced his attention back to his emails. There was little use brooding over spilt milk.

The day dragged by uneventfully. Apparently, Saint-Marie was content to take a break from murdering people for the time being. Camille, Dwayne and Fidel had poured their energy and time into solving Richard’s case and had neglected the day-to-day business for it. Now they poured over small-time drug deals, bootlegged rum and overdue parking tickets. The Commissioner had sent Richard an email with statistics on increased pickpocketing that caught his interest and he had the whiteboard covered with leads and ideas when Dwayne sidled up to him.  
     “Don’t overwork yourself on your first day, Chief. Wanna join us at the bar? We should celebrate your recovery, eh?”  
     Richard turned around to reply, but the too-quick movement tore at his wound. Instead he only hissed through his teeth, looking darkly at Dwayne as if the pain was his fault.  
    “No objections? Nice! Let’s go” Dwayne added happily and put on his hat.

Richard didn’t know how happy he should be about the fact that he had actually missed Catherine’s tea. Compared to what you got at any British gas station, the drink she served was still pitiful, but after two weeks in the hospital and another week at home in bed, those first few sips lifted his spirits. Had he simply become used to it by now? He didn’t think he’d get used to _anything_ on Saint-Marie.   
     “So you’ve been back to work; are you sure you’re feeling up to it already?” Catherine asked him sweetly as she put down his second cup of what passed here for Afternoon tea in front of him with a smile.   
    “Yes, thank you. I’m quite all right” he replied, perhaps a little too curtly. Richard was glad for every moment he wasn’t reminded of the persistent, dull pain in his chest.  
     “I heard my little girl took good care of you”. Catherine’s smile had turned into a smirk.  
     “They all did” Richard evaded, indicating his team with a jerk of his head. “And uh, I appreciate it. Really”. He nodded to them, feeling self-conscious.  
     Camille exchanged a look with her mother whose meaning was lost to Richard. So he hid behind his teacup instead and hoped Catherine would drop the topic.

~~~~

Camille nursed her second beer when Dwayne tipped his hat and got up. Fidel had left a while ago, wanting to kiss his baby girl good-night. The sun was slowly setting and drenched the bar in a mellow, orange light. Richard sat turned away from her with a newspaper in one hand and his tea cup in the other, suspended in mid-air. He was absorbed in whatever article had caught his attention. Camille propped her chin up in one hand and observed her chief for a while. She had almost lost him. For good. It had been one thing when he had flown back to England. She had fretted for almost a week over whether he would return or not, but at least, he would have lived. It was another thing entirely to realize that by the width of a hair, he would have died.   
    Camille gave in to a sudden urge to reach out. Richard jumped when she touched his hand that was holding up the newspaper. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced.  
     “Was that really necessary?” he hissed.   
     “I’m sorry” Camille said and winced in sympathy. “I just – I thought we almost lost you, this time. _I_ almost lost you … “.  
     Richard jugged back his lukewarm tea and put down the newspaper. “Don’t be so dramatic” he said, his eyes averted.  
      “Are you going to keep your _souvenirs_ from college?” she asked him instead.  
      Richard shrugged. “Why should I? They served their purpose and I have no use for them here. Besides, I don’t want to be reminded of my almost-murder every time I come through the door”.   
       Camille watched him for a silent while before she said: “But they’re the only things that still remind you of Sasha; the real one, I mean. You loved her, after all”. She kept her voice light.   
     “That was over two decade ago, Camille” Richard replied. He still wouldn’t look at her.   
     “Sir, you don’t have to be ashamed of your feelings” she told him softly.   
     “Shouldn’t I? I spent _years_ courting a woman who never had the faintest spark of romantic love for me. I feel like a fool thinking back on that time”. He contemplated the dark leaves that swirled in the last drops of his tea.   
     “When another is right there waiting for you” Camille added.  
     “Angela? Perhaps” Richard said and turned his attention back to his article.   
_Her too, yes_ , Camille thought and suppressed a sigh.   
     It had been –and still was – ridiculous that she had completely and helplessly fallen in love with this man. Richard was cranky, stuck-up, grumpy, irritable, frustrating, and so damnably _English_. No-one made Camille lose her temper as quickly and as often as he did. And no-one amazed her more than Richard. It had been his brilliant mind she had fallen for first. Then his green eyes, once she had noticed how they sometimes looked at her. It frustrated her how her small attempts at flirting passed by him utterly unnoticed – and at the same time, she felt challenged by it. He was everything she didn’t understand, and that made her want to learn him. All of him; his quirky mind as much as his body.    
     Camille took a sip from her beer. It had gone warm by now, but she didn’t mind. More than anything else, the bottle served her as something to hold on to. She didn’t even know why she had asked him about his feelings for Angela or Sasha. Was it a perverse pleasure to hear him shrug them off like that? What would have happened if Helen _had_ turned out to be Sasha Moore? Would his love for her have flared up again? Camille ducked her head. She felt a tiny bit guilty for being selfishly glad that Helen was now behind bars back in London, and the rest of the group had long since departed, too.   
      The newspaper rustled when Richard folded it. “Good-night Camille. See you tomorrow at the station” he told her and got up.   
     She nodded her god-bye and waved a hand. “Good-night, Sir. I hope you sleep well”.  
    Richard took a step and then hesitated. He hovered for a second and turned around to her again. His mouth was slightly open, unspoken words on his lips. The sun illuminated his olive eyes and made them stand out starkly in his still pale face.   
    “I … Sleep well” he said hastily and then turned and walked briskly from the bar.    
    Camille stared after him, resting her chin in her hands. She had the distinct feeling that – like so many times – Richard hadn’t said what he had intended to.


	3. Chapter 3

Richard had indeed gotten rid of the box the next day after their conversation about it, and Camille felt a bit lighter for it. It was a stupid and childish emotion to be jealous of a box of old photos and diaries, but reading through lines and lines of the young Richard Poole pouring his heart out about unrequited love hadn’t exactly resonated well with her.  
    When it was time to call it a day and Richard passed by her desk, Camille stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I’ll drop by your shack later if that’s OK? Maman has ironed the rest of your things”.  
     Camille, her mother and Juliet had taken turns with Richard’s laundry during his time spent ill and in bed. Because he still couldn’t move his left arm properly, Catherine had volunteered to continue to iron his suit trousers for him. Richard had complained weakly and quite perfunctory, and Camille had sternly asked her mother to stop babying her chief. He was definitely well enough to do his own laundry. _Including_ ironing those stupid suits.  
     With three almost identical, light-brown trousers over her arm and two beers in her hand, Camille waded through the sand to Richard’s shack an hour later. She had left her sandals in the car. Richard sat hunched over a table on his veranda, tie and everything still in place, and mushed something together on a small plate. Of course – it was feeding time for Harry the lizard. While Camille strolled towards the Inspector, she idly mused that the reptile got more attention than most of the human beings on the island. Unless they were dead. But then again, the man who squinted at her against the sun was the man who brought a book to a party. And not just to uncover a suspect; Richard was frequently reading when any normal person would be happy to socialize. It was one of those traits that both frustrated and intrigued Camille. She had become a police officer not so much because she felt the need to fight for the law, but because she liked puzzles. It was a passion she shared with Richard. Except that the Inspector used leads as _literary_ puzzle pieces, whereas Camille saw the keys to solve a mystery more in people than in fingerprints. They complemented each other that way.  
    Richard got up when Camille climbed the stairs to his veranda. “Thank you. Put them on the bed, will you?” he asked her. He held his hands at his sides and Camille could see that they were smeared with mango and bits of mosquito. She grimaced. Lovely. Richard disappeared into his bathroom to clean up and Camille put then laundry where he had bid her. Then she carried Harry’s dinner inside to its usual spot and replaced the plate with the two beers.  
     When Richard returned and Camille held out the opened bottle to him, he sighed. She rolled her eyes at him in answer. “No complaints! Have this one beer with me as a thank-you for playing the housewives to you”. Richard took it from her without another word, but she could see his silent suffering. Camille snorted and shook her head. What other person would see beer as a _punishment_? She plopped down in the chair next to Richard.  
     “ _À ta santé_!” Camille said and they clinked the bottles. After they had both sipped from the bitter draught, Camille asked: “When will they take the stitches out?”  
     Richard lowered his chin to look at the padding that stood out against his shirt. “In three days if there are no complications”. He creased his eyebrows as if he had just remembered something. Just like the night before, he looked at Camille, words almost visible at the tip of his tongue. He shook his head and returned to stare out at the water. “You know, I might have gotten used to the tea, but I will never get used to the beer” he said instead.  
    This time, Camille wouldn’t let him get away with it. “ _Non_. You wanted to say something just now. What was it?” she inquired.   
    Richard shrugged. “It’s nothing” he deflected her question lightly, but there was something taut in his voice.  
    “Richard … You can tell me. I’m your friend” Camille told him.  
    “It’s nothing of consequence, Camille” he insisted, his eyes averted and his mouth a line.  
     “Come on, out with it. It’s bad for your health to bottle things up”. She meant it, too. Richard needed to be coaxed. That was something else she could complete. It had always been in her nature to inquire gently, and Richard was the very epitome of a man who needed a little push now and then. He yielded her coaxing most of the time, especially if she had to discreetly make him understand that he had once more run down social etiquette like a bulldozer.  
     Other times, however, Richard Poole tended to get into a ranting fit instead.

~~~~

The beer frothed and overflowed when Richard put the bottle forcefully down on the table. He crossed his arms over his chest, bearing the pain of the movement. He glowered at Camille. “Give it a rest. I don’t want to talk about it!” he spat out.  
     Camille was clearly taken aback, her features darkening in anger. “You’re churning on something for _days_ now! Don’t you think talking about it would help?” she shot back.  
     “If _you_ people think spilling your heart out and cuddling will help, fine! I’m _British_. We don’t … _talk_!”  
    “No, instead you whine in writing for pages and pages about it!” Camille retorted. She had placed her own beer next to his and was leaning towards him, her finger stabbing the air in front of him with every word.  
     “Are you talking about my _diary_ from _college_?” he asked incredulously. Why on earth did she bring that up again?  
    “My poor heart, oh I’m so alone, she doesn’t love me, boo boo boo” Camille mock-imitated him with a low and whiny voice.  
    “Will you stop that!” he told her in irritation. “What has that to do with anything?”.  
    Camille sniffed and turned her head away from him. She was visibly blushing and in Richard rose the feeling that something was going on that was very much beyond his understanding. Again. He fumbled for words for a moment until he came to the conclusion that the truth was probably best.  
     “I’m thinking of returning to London” he told Camille.  
     Her face fell. It was such a stark transition from anger to shock that it registered even with Richard. “ _Quoi_?” Camille breathed.  
     Richard fumbled with his tie to loosen it, feeling suddenly constricted. “Evidently, you can handle things by yourself. Solving this case – my case – has proven that. Besides, people who want to harm me one way of the other keep turning up on Saint-Marie. The Moores, Doug Anderson - I stick out like a _sore_ ”.  
    “Yes! And it’s your own fault! You _refuse_ to fit in like it’s contagious! Do you really think these people wouldn’t have found you in England, too? If anything, it would have been _easier_ for them”. Camille nearly shouted. She had gotten up and gesticulated wildly. Richard felt both irritated and hurt by her reply. He shouldn’t have told her. Damn this vile French vixen for making him!  
     “Why are you so angry, Camille? I just gave you a compliment! I was never meant to stay here, anyway”, he retorted.  
     “Then why did you come back a few weeks ago, Richard? Why did you not stay _then_?”. There was something in Camille’s eyes that gave him pause. Was it really only anger that had propelled her out of the chair? Richard had not expected her to congratulate him on the decision; or at least, he had hoped she wouldn’t. But he hadn’t calculated with such a strong reaction, either. The truth was, Richard hadn’t told Camille _all_ his reasons. There was one thing that made him want to stay here – and run away fast and far at the same time. And that was the angry, hurt, beautiful, incredible Sergeant standing right in front of him _._  
     She had made him come back; it had always been her. How many times had Richard tried to tell her, just to let the words die on his lips. He was torn between wanting to read something more into her looks than just her French way of seemingly flirting with everyone and the bookshelves, and shutting his eyes before it forever.  
     There had been a time when he could have pulled out. Where returning to England would have been the sweetest dream come true. Now that dream _had_ come true, and Richard realized it wasn’t what he wanted after all. He was past the point of no return, past the days when he could tell himself that Camille was just a typical French woman on a godforsaken island. He sweated more when he was alone with her, like now, when she came to his doorstep or sat with him on the beach. He was more aware of her, somehow, spent more time and energy desperately trying to read the looks and little touches she gave him. And all the while, he felt his voice falter when he thought he had finally worked up the courage to broach the topic. Had he not been stabbed and Dwayne not told him of Camille’s breakdown, he might have been able to continue like this. But the way she had reacted when she thought he was dead was just one more drop of water on his emotional scale, threatening it to tip.  
     And then what? Richard had spent _years_ being rejected by a woman he had lost his heart to. After that, he had drawn back into himself, avoiding relationships altogether. He had gradually lost his desire for female company, instead immersing himself in his education as Inspector. The work had been a fulfilling replacement, even if it meant he was shunned for his unsocial ways. It didn’t matter; as long as no-one came near enough, no-one could hurt him.  
     If he told Camille of his feelings for her, there were two possibilities: she either returned them – or she didn’t. Easy as that. He almost pictured this on a whiteboard, as if it was another case to solve. And both possible outcomes would in turn entail a heap of their own problems. If Camille felt the same way, how would that affect their work? And what did _she_ ultimately want? And if she didn’t want him, how quickly could he leave the island? Because yes, that was what he was; a coward. He’d run away. Like so many times before. When Richard couldn’t physically leave, he’d bury himself in his work instead. That was what had sustained him around Camille’s glances and her exotic smell and her visits to his shack.  
     “Richard! I’m still talking to you!” Camille’s angry words snapped him back from his wandering thoughts. Richard took a breath and focused on the woman once more.  
      “I’m tired, Camille. I think I should go to bed” he told her instead of answering her earlier question.  
      Rather than deflating her anger and getting rid of her, his words triggered Camille to explode into a new fit of fury. “Why can’t you talk to me, just _once_ , Richard Poole! You seem to dance around what you really want to say!”  
      “Well, why don’t you say what you want from me too!” Richard shot back. He’s had enough of her own games. What _did_ those looks mean? Why _did_ she come to him, alone, time and time again? Was this what they called companionship on Saint-Marie? Or was it courting? Richard Poole was so thoroughly tired of all the small and large things he didn’t understand on this bloody island.  
     “Fine!” Camille yelled at him, stemming her hands in her hips. “ _Tu veux savoir ce que je ressens pour toi? Je_ t'aime _, imbécile aveugle_!”. She gave him one last, terribly hurt look and then stalked away.  
     Richard stared at her back, feeling completely lost. Whatever she had said had been important, he was sure of it. So why couldn’t she have _spoken English_? Richard sank back into his chair and buried his face in his hands. Then he downed the now lukewarm beer in one draught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's what Camille told him in French: “You want to know what I feel for you? I love you, you blind fool!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Richard Poole continues to be an idiot.

Camille ignored him stoically the next day. Her answers to his questions were clipped and consisted of no more than two words at most, but she seemed to make a ridiculous effort to speak clear and loud, as if she wanted to get rid of her accent. It made no sense to Richard so he buried himself in his own work instead.  
     When Camille and Dwayne went out to get lunch, Fidel approached Richard. “Chief? Uh...” He started but fell silent when Richard gave him a look.   
     “Out with it, Fidel!” he ordered his newly minted Sergeant.   
     The young man took heart visibly. “Have you and Camille … gotten into a fight?” he carefully ventured.  
     Richard threw his hands into the air. It was none of Fidel’s business and he was annoyed with Camille for letting everyone know about their argument. She should really be more professional about that! But instead of telling Fidel off, Richard found himself pouring out his frustration.  
     “If she would _just_ tell me what she wants to say!” he sighed. “She either drops hints that I have no clue how to read, or she yells at me in French and then stalks away!”.  
    “What did she say?” Fidel asked.  
    “How the hell should I know!” Richard retorted heatedly. “It sounded important, so _why_ couldn’t she say it in English? She speaks the language well enough, for heaven’s sake. She just wants to vex me”.  
     Fidel grimaced sympathetically. “Maybe she does, you know. Let me help, Chief. What did the French _sound_ like?”  
     Richard ran a hand through his hair, raking his brains. “I don’t know … It was two sentences, I think. There was a clear emphasize on one word, though … sounded a bit like … Thames? You know, the river Thames? Just with an ‘ai’ sound in the middle, as in ‘aim’ … or close enough”  
     “Like ‘ _la reine_ ’” Fidel suggested.  
    Richard pointed at him. “Yes! That’s the sound, but the word was different…”  
    “Something between Thames and _reine_ , eh…” Fidel mused and then suddenly his eyes widened. “Chief? Did she say ‘ _je t’aime_ ’?”  
     Richard gave Fidel a relieved grin. “That’s it exactly. So what does it mean?”.  
     Fidel paled a little and his eyes darted towards the door. “Uhm. I don’t think I should tell you, Sir … “ he stammered.  
     “Why not? If it’s an insult, I can take it, I assure you”.  
     Fidel grimaced. “That’s not it at all, Sir. Listen, how about that. I write it down for you and you look it up?”.  
     Richard shook his head in exasperated confusion. “Fine, if that makes you feel better”.  
    “Tonight, when we leave. Because, frankly, Chief? I don’t want to be here when you find out”.   
     Fidel shot him a shaky grin before he vanished to find something to eat, leaving Richard more confused than before.

~~~~

Camille was still steaming when she helped her mother clean glasses behind the bar. Catherine didn’t need her daughter’s help, but Camille needed something to keep her busy.  
     “You can’t throw _French_ at the man’s head and then expect him to understand what you want from him” Catherine gently chided her daughter.  
     Camille snorted. “He doesn’t understand me in English either half of the time. And I don’t mean because I mispronounce the words. He’s so _thick_ , _maman_! How can a grown-up man of over forty years be so damnable deaf and blind when he’s such a brilliant detective!”  
     “Camille, what _exactly_ did you tell him?” Catherine asked.  
     Camille shrugged. She suddenly felt self-conscious. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her mother with her emotions – it was just if she told her, it would become real. Shouting it at Richard in French had been as much out of spite as it had been out of self-defence. Of course she had known that Richard wouldn’t understand. That’s why she had told him. That’s why she _only_ kept darting glances at him, why she had _only_ given him a peck on the cheek instead of a full kiss on the mouth. What exactly was holding her back to tell him?   
     “I told him he’s an idiot” Camille finally ceded. It wasn’t quite a lie, after all. Camille picked up a glass to rub it dry.  
     “And that’s all?”. Catherine lifted her eyebrows and handed her another dripping wet pint.  
     “More or less” Camille replied.  
     A knowing smile blossomed on Catherine’s lips. “Ah” she only said.  
    “What?!” Camille shot back.  
    “You told him what you feel about him, didn’t you, _chérie_?” Catherine said slowly.  
     “And what would that be?” Camille sniffed  
     “Oh Camille, Richard might be deaf and blind, but I’m not. I see how you look at him. And besides, you are my daughter. How can I not know?”  
      Camille turned her head away to look out at the busy street. She didn’t feel like denying her feelings for Richard to her mother. What was the point?   
      Catherine put an arm around her daughter and fondly kissed her on the side of her head. “Do you remember when I set you up with that blind date during the Erzulie festival? You walked straight up to Richard instead, not doubting for a minute that it was him I had chosen. And when you realized the misunderstanding, oh my dear Camille, you looked so crestfallen”. Catherine hugged her daughter close.   
     Camille looked down on the glass she was drying. Perhaps it was time to draw a line. To set things straight. It was very much unlike her to beat around the bush like this anyway. She’d tell him and have it out of the way, like an infected wound. Sometimes, it was better to grind your teeth and cut away the infection to save the rest. So be it, then. What had Richard said? He was sure they could handle themselves. And he was thinking of leaving, anyway. Maybe he would be glad if Camille’s confession served as that final push to make up his mind.

Camille tried not to think of what she was about to do when she climbed into her car and drove straight to Richard’s shack. The sun was almost down and the streetlights had already lit up. Cicadas droned out their love songs into the night when she killed the engine in front of the small hut. There was still light inside, but Richard wasn’t on the veranda. Camille stalked towards the hut, her fists balled as much in determination as in nervousness. She wouldn’t allow herself to find a way to back out now.   
     “Sir?” she called and heard the tautness in her own voice, even in that single word. No-one answered.   
     Camille determinedly climbed the steps to the veranda and peered around the open shutters. The living room that doubled as a bedroom was empty.  
     “Richard?” she called once more and then pricked her ears to listen. Perhaps he was in the bathroom. But no sound other than the myriad insects outside answered her.  
     Camille growled in frustration and felt her resolve falter. He couldn’t be at the bar because that was where she came from, and if he wasn’t home – well he might be at the police station for all she knew. Camille turned to walk back to her car when a sudden movement down by the water caught her eyes. She knitted her brows and changed the direction. The driftwood tree trunk, bleached and smoothed by sun and saltwater, had often served Richard and her as a bench right by the ocean.  
     The Sergeant kicked up sand with her strap sandals as she walked briskly towards the trunk. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary from where she approached, but when she rounded the wood she nearly groaned. There sat Richard Poole, hunkered down on his jacket as a makeshift spread, looking up sheepishly.   
     Camille put her hands in her hips. “Are you _hiding_?” she asked him coldly.  
     Richard righted himself, wincing at the pain that must have shot through his chest. “Nonsense. I was just enjoying the evening” he retorted.   
     Camille wasn’t buying it. But before he could get up, she stepped over his legs and sat down next to him. She drew up her knees and laced her fingers around them. Then she took a very deep breath.   
     “ _Bien_ ” she said but immediately bit her lip. No French, not this time. “Right” she translated instead. Camille forced herself to look at Richard. He pointedly didn’t meet her eyes; instead he gazed out over the water. Irritation began to rise in Camille. Was he still angry with her? When she had already made a peace offering by coming here?   
     Without warning, Richard handed her a slip of paper. “Fidel gave me this” he told Camille, eyes still trained on the gently rolling waves in front of them. Camille took it from him, turning it over. It said ‘Je t’aime’. She gave Richard a puzzled look.   
     “No, it’s not like this” he read her thoughts. “Fidel is still very much enamoured with his wife and child at home – or so I’d like to believe”. Richard began to tap his foot nervously against the sand. He cleared his throat. “He helped me translate what you yelled at me last night” he finally managed.   
     Camille studied his face from the side. His olive-green eyes stared pointedly at the horizon. His body was taut and he was visibly on edge. Camille’s heart sunk. So this was his reaction to her confession. Avoiding her, even _hiding_. Camille got up with a sigh. She flipped the paper back into Richard’s lap. “Keep it. It was meant for you, anyway” she told him coldly and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout-out to Catherine Bordey!


	5. Chapter 5

Camille managed to keep her temper in check until she had unlocked the door to her apartment. Then she slammed it shut behind her. The booming sound was very satisfying. Camille looked around for something to hit. Preferably with Richard’s face on it. Failing to find a proper outlet, she only slapped her fridge with the heel of her hand. It hurt, but she welcomed the pain.     
     How could she have been _so stupid_! Who was blind and deaf one now? How could she have _ever_ expected that uptight English idiot to even consider her as more than an involuntary partner! Rejection, anger at her own foolish emotions and the beginning of a heartbreak all blossomed in her chest into a sweet pain. Camille felt tears sting in the corners of her eyes. She wanted to cry until she was dried out and no longer hurting, and at the same time, she stubbornly refused to let that _imbécile_ bring her to tears. She brought her fist down on the kitchen table. It made a satisfying sound and split her knuckles. Two red stains of blood smeared across the surface.   
     Then somebody knocked on the door. Camille growled; if that was the neighbours complaining about the noise, well, she was in a good mood to pick a fight. Camille rushed to the door and yanked it open, a sarcastic remark ready on her lips.  
     A wide-eyed Richard took a step back.  
     “Go away!” Camille told him heatedly after she had overcome her own initial surprise. She was prepared to slam the door right into his face, but Richard put a foot in the threshold. “Please” he said. Camille pushed against the door nevertheless, but Richard’s foot stubbornly remained where it was. She heaved a loud sigh and ceded eventually.  
      “What do you want?” Camille snapped at Richard over her shoulder as she stalked into her apartment. She turned, crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at him. Richard looked as helpless as he often did; with his rumpled suit, still sandy in places, and his tie knotted tight under his chin. He had a sad, forlorn look on his face. The fingers of his left hand twitched, the right one clutched that damned paper slip. Richard held it out to Camille once more. “Here. Please, take it” he pleaded tightly.  
     Camille flared her nostrils. How dare he? It already hurt like hell that he didn’t return her feelings, but outright _denying_ them?   
     “No” Camille told him flatly. “When are you leaving for England?”.  
     “Leaving … ?” Richard breathed. He looked puzzled and lost.  
     “I imagine this helped you decide”. She gestured towards the paper in his hand.   
     Something snapped in Richard then. He stuffed the slip into his pocket and took a decisive step towards her. “Stop being snappish for one minute and let me talk!” he told her angrily. “I’m horrible at this, and you can’t possibly imagine what it costs me!”  
    “Cost? _You_?” Camille shot back.  
    “Camille!” Richard almost shouted her name, his voice rising in desperation.  
    “ _You_? What about me? How many times do I have to lose you, Richard? You leave for England and I don’t know if you come back. You get stabbed and I don’t know if you’ll live. And now you want to leave again? Then do it already! Go! Because I cannot change what I feel for you and if you need to run away because of it, fine!”.  
    When she had finished, Richard took a deep breath, righted his tie and squared his shoulders. “Well” he said shakily “this isn’t working”. Then he closed the distance between them with another step. He lifted his hands, letting them hover near Camille’s shoulders uncertainly before he took heart and placed them on her upper arms. “Camille” he said gently. Now that Richard was so close, she could see the strain in the muscles around his mouth, his too-bright eyes. He hadn’t lied; this did cost him much. Camille felt her anger soften a little. Richard leaned forward haltingly, and gently but timidly pressed his lips against hers. It was such a shy, innocent kiss that Camille couldn’t help but smile against the touch. When Richard broke away a few seconds later, he looked at her uncertainly and then let his gaze dart away from her face. At least he didn’t let go of her shoulders.  
     “Oh, you oafish stuck-up man” Camille whispered. “Is this how you kiss in England?”. Then she closed the gap once more, capturing Richard’s mouth in a _proper_ kiss. He responded almost immediately, as if he had only waited for the invitation. Camille felt herself melt against her Inspector. She laced her arms around his neck and aligned her body with his. She pressed her breasts against Richard’s chest, feeling the padding of his band-aids through the thin fabric. Richard obediently opened his mouth and let her guide him through the kiss. The scent of his aftershave filled Camille’s nose as the taste of his lips filled her senses. His hands were surprisingly rough on her arms and he held her so tight, it almost hurt. When Camille felt her body’s desires rise as she was about to deepen the kiss further, she broke away hastily. Richard stared at her with a dazed look on his face. He shifted on his feet and that was when Camille could feel Richard’s own need against her hip. Her eyes widened momentarily.   
     Richard swallowed and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He still looked thoroughly rumpled and overwhelmed, but new determination has crept into his eyes. “Before you ask” he said hoarsely “no, I’m not _that_ injured”.   
     Understanding the obvious invitation, Camille pressed herself against him once more and leaned in for another kiss. This time, she didn’t hold back. Not breaking the contact, she angled away from him enough to yank at his tie until the knot gave way. It was such a satisfying feeling and she had imagined more than once what it would be like to get rid of that stupid piece of clothing. Richard let her, hungrily opening his mouth under hers. His tie hung loose around his neck and Camille used it like a leash to pull Richard backwards into her bedroom. She had never been shy about sex and deftly began to work on Richard’s shirt. Richard, however, trembled beneath her touch. He had let his hands uncertainly wander down to her hips, lifting her shirt to roam his palms over her skin. Camille leaned back to look at Richard. He had flushed visibly. A smile blossomed on Camille’s face. Strangely, his bumbling, hesitating way made her want him even more. Richard was her mentor and teacher when it came to police work; now it would be her who would teach and guide him. A spike of desire propelled Camille to simply yank open Richard’s shirt. She heard two or three buttons clatter against the tiles of her floor. Only when Richard winced when he shrugged out of the shirt did Camille recall that he was still seriously wounded. She made a mental note to hold back – at least for now, at least for this night.  
     Camille pulled her own shirt over her head unceremoniously. She took Richard’s wrists and guided his hands to the clasp of her bra while she kissed the crook of his neck, his collarbone and where the band-aid s met his skin. He actually managed to work the bra loose and Camille surged up against him, needing this skin-on-skin contact. She looked down to where their bodies met, her dark chocolate skin against his pallor. It was a rather beautiful contrast, Camille decided.  
     She gently pushed Richard down on her bed and after a bit of fumbling, she got rid of their remaining clothes. Camille stretched out next to Richard, searching for his eyes. Even if his body clearly showed her what he wanted, Camille needed to make sure, one last time. He meant too much to her, she realized. That was one of the reasons she had held back to tell him how she felt about him. She hadn’t wanted to risk destroying the friendship that connected them for the selfish act of confessing her love.   
      “I’m not made of glass, Camille” Richard whispered, his breath already coming in small gasps, when he realized that Camille was waiting for his consent. He was lying on his back, his head turned towards her.  
      “No, but you’re my grumpy, stuck-up, _British_ Inspector, and I want to make sure you’ll still talk to me in the morning. Neither do I want to find my bed empty” she told him. She made her voice sound light, but for a fleeting moment, the desire ebbed away when she feared he might still back out.  
      Richard rolled over to his side. In an uncharacteristically deft and gentle way, he put his arms around her waist and pulled her towards him. He brought their faces very close together, and Richard’s features blurred before Camille’s eyes. “I’m not leaving. You.” He told her, and Camille understood that he didn’t just mean tonight. That was everything she had needed to know – and all that held her back evaporated with these words. Camille dove into the next kiss with ferocity and let her hand deftly glide down between Richard’s legs.   
       Richard’s injury forced them to make slow and careful love. What Camille first thought would frustrate and dissatisfy her, turned out to be surprisingly gentle and fulfilling instead. Every touch was measured and conscious, ever stroke and thrust deliberate. Instead of frantic groping to still the usual passion of the first night, they drew each other along unhurriedly. Richard’s initial tension gradually ebbed away, and he could finally meet her eyes even when she touched him between his legs.   
     The fragrant night coiled around them while they spent hour after hour wrapped tight round each other. Their bodies were soon slick with sweat and Camille fleetingly noticed that for once, Richard didn’t complain about the heat. Instead, he pressed himself against Camille as he moved inside her, slowly and with an almost precise rhythm. Camille closed her eyes and buried her nose into the crook of his neck. The aftershave had faded and all that she smelled now was only her Richard.

When the alarm beeped, and Camille drifted from sleep back into consciousness, she noticed first that she lay on the wrong side of the bed. Then she noticed that on her usual half, DI Richard Poole lay sprawled across the sheets, pale and naked and fast asleep. Camille allowed herself a grin that felt entirely too self-satisfied. He was still here. She robbed over to nudge Richard awake. Curling up beside him, she watched him come to. Richard’s confusion was apparent on his face as he slowly got his bearings.   
     “Camille” he mumbled as his eyes fell on her. He let his gaze travel down her naked body. “Oh” he said and then everything started to register visibly on his face. He blushed slightly and Camille smiled up at him.   
     “Come on, let’s get up” she urged him, pushing him playfully towards the bed’s edge. Richard grumbled something unintelligibly but eventually swung his feet off the mattress.   
     They took hasty turns in the bathroom while Camille juggled making coffee with getting dressed. Luckily, she still had a spare toothbrush and although Richard of course complained, they somehow managed not to be horribly late. Before she knew it, they sat in her car next to each other, on their way to the police station, as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me! :-*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive my horrible Murder Mystery Case. I will never claim I’m good at writing those! If nothing else, see it as a plot device for Richard to overthink and panic (again).  
> I would like to thank each and every one of you who took the time to read my little story, and even leave a kudos or a comment. I really appreciate every single one :-*

Since Camille sometimes picked him up before she drove to the police station, Richard didn’t bother to hide the fact that they both arrived together. After a small debate, Camille had gruffly ceded to sew the buttons back on that she had yanked off in her haste to get him out of his shirt last night. He wore the same outfit as he did yesterday. But then again, he had about five similar-looking suits, so Fidel and Dwayne probably wouldn’t notice. Richard shook his head as he gazed out of the car window at Honoré flying by. His small, secure world had been thoroughly shaken. All the walls he had so carefully constructed were in grave danger to come tumbling down. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Camille had told him that she loved him. What were the odds? Not a single woman in all of London had been able to pique his interest after Cambridge, not even the ones he had been working with. And this dark-skinned Sergeant had his heart in her hand in a matter of months. And she had his. There was no denying that.  
     Camille stopped as a traffic light jumped to red. Without further ado, she twisted towards him, flashed him a small smile and kissed him full on the lips. When she drew back, the light dissolved into green and she accelerated. Richard gave her a stupefied look and couldn’t decide whether he should be pleasantly surprised or horribly mortified.  
     Before Camille pushed the car door open when they arrived at the station, Richard placed a hand on her arm. “Can we please … not announce this to the world just yet?” he asked her quietly.  
     Camille nodded, understanding in her eyes. “I would have been surprised if you asked me otherwise” she replied and then left the car.

Camille remained true to her word. Her demeanour towards him was her usual light and cheerful way, and she dug into the work he gave her with earnest professionalism. Dwayne and Fidel, too, seemed relieved that their bickering had stopped for now and jested as if nothing had happened.  
     And yet, the looks Camille shot him from underneath her lashes, her lingering fingers on his arm – they had surrendered the mysteries that had so frustrated Richard. Because now, he knew what they meant. And that they were _his_ , and his alone. It made his heart skip a beat, quite literally, and he absently wondered how clever it had been to get into a relationship with his Sergeant with a pierced heart.  
     Richard had had years and years of practise to push all else away when it came to solve a case. He was able to do that with Camille, too, as a force of habit. Except that every now and then, he remembered something she had said in the past, something that had sounded cryptic at that time – but now he felt he understood what she had been trying to tell him. It snapped him out of his focus, making him lift his eyes to Camille and stare at her with a stupid half-smile on his face.  
     The phone rang and Fidel answered it. No-one paid him much attention; they _were_ Honoré’s police after all, and Saint-Marie’s emergencies ended up at Fidel’s line.  After a short conversation, Fidel put down the receiver with a grave look on his face. “We have a murder” he announced “Or … so I guess”.

The four of them stood around the hand lying on the grass. It was literally a single hand with no body attached to it. The flesh was bloated and badly discoloured, some of the fingertips already eaten away by insects and carrion birds. Richard stared down at it in concentration. “Well” he started “a hand isn’t quite a murder victim, Fidel”.  
    Fidel inclined his head. “Who lets their hand just rot here, even if it was, say, chopped off in accident?” he replied. Richard had to give him credit; work accidents happened all the time, but who would not take the severed limb to the hospital immediately?  
     “We should still take it to the coroner, check if the victim is in the database” Camille offered. Richard nodded and let a highly unamused Dwayne bag the hand.

The severed limb did indeed turn out to belong to a missing person case. A man named Alan Bryce who had moved with his wife from Northern England to Saint-Marie twenty years ago. He had been reported missing more than five years ago. But with no lead whatsoever, the case had gone cold before Richard had arrived. And now his hand turned up, in a state of decomposition that was _clearly_ more recent than five years. The coroner had also included in his report that he presumed the ‘weapon’ to be a machete, which was used throughout the island for harvesting coconuts and trimming palm trees. He also dated the time of death to be roughly two months ago.  
     Richard tapped the marker to his lips while he stared at the whiteboard. It looked like Alan Bryce had died only recently. So where had he been, the last five years? On Saint-Marie, hiding? Highly unlikely. The island was tiny. If he had been alive those five years, someone would have seen him. Had he left the island and then returned, only to find his death? That made Richard snort. Sounded familiar … He absently scratched the padding on his chest.  
     Camille sidled up to him with a piece of paper in her hand. “The wife, Rachel, is still living in Honoré” she said while she scanned the sheet. “It was she who reported her husband missing back then”. They had already secured a photo of Mr Bryce from the old files Fidel and Dwayne had dug out. Richard had pinned it on top. He eyed it uncomfortably. He never ever wanted to see his own counterfeit up there again. Wherever that had gone after the case was closed, though.  
     Camille waved another picture at him. “That’s her, Rachel Bryce” she told him as he took the photo from her.  
     “Camille, where is the portrait of me that you put up when you worked on my case?” he asked her.  
     Camille folded her lips. She darted a glance at Dwayne and Fidel who were leaning together over Fidel’s computer screen, discussing something and paying the pair no heed. “I might have kept it” Camille admitted softly. Richard raised his eyebrows and had to hide a smile. He didn’t say anything more, but he felt a tiny bit taller.  
     Together, Camille and Richard filled in the whiteboard with the facts and stats they thought important from the missing person case. They were just about to pack up to visit Mrs Bryce, when Fidel announced that yet another body part had been discovered. This time, it was a foot.

The foot consisted of nothing more than a jumble of disjointed bones. At first glance, it was dead much longer than the hand, what with the flesh missing. But then again, they couldn’t be sure it belonged to the handless Mr Bryce. Because all the bones were in their right place, their first guess was that the foot must’ve been decomposed right where they found it.  
     Richard had it sent it to the coroner and when the results came back, he was hooked. It _was_ Alan Bryce’s foot, sharing the DNA with the hand. Also, the foot had died over a year ago.  
     With a fresh mystery in tow, he and Camille speeded towards Rachel Bryce.

Rachel Bryce was a tiny lady of over 60 years, bound to a wheelchair. When they asked her about her missing husband and what exactly had happened five years ago, she soon became spiteful and snappy.  
     “ _Now_ the police comes crawling?” she sneered at them. “For _five years_ , you did _nothing_ to find Alan! Now you find his dead body – or worse, parts of it - and someone finally has the decency to show up! Do you know how many times I phoned the station? All you told me was to wait. So I did. And _you_ did nothing!” Rachel Bryce huffed and pointedly wheeled away from Richard and Camille. “I have nothing more to tell you” she stated with finality.  
     Richard, knowing he wouldn’t get through to her, sighed and stepped back. He only needed one silent look to ask Camille to handle this, and Camille took over the questioning. She had a way with people, Richard mused. When someone got angry and aggressive, Richard tended to answer in the same manner. Camille, however, could talk people down, if she wanted to. She could also slam them over a table, so that was that. Something within Richard eased suddenly. It was only now that he realized he had been concerned the previous night would intervene with how they worked together. Camille had stolen another kiss from him in the car, when they were crossing a stretch of empty road, but otherwise, nothing had changed in her demeanour towards him.  
     Back in the car, Richard stared down at his notepad in concentration. “Something is off with her” he mused.  
     “Yes. Why is she so angry? We bring closure to her case. Shouldn’t she be relieved?” Camille added.  
      “Do you remember how many times she had called the station?” Richard asked absently as he scanned his notes. “She specifically said she called a lot of times”.  
     Camille shot him a quick look before focusing on the street again. “Not in detail, but I do remember that the list of recorded phone calls fit on half a page…”.

When Camille and Richard arrived back at Honoré’s police station, they found it deserted. Dwayne and Fidel had gone to interrogate the people that were listed as witnesses and then wanted to return to the spots where they had found the hand and foot.  
     Camille leaved through the files on her desk. “Here it is” she said and held up the phone list. “You were right, Richard; she called exactly four times. Huh” Camille absently chewed on her lower lip as her eyes roamed over the list.  
     Richard joined her to peer at the paper over Camille’s shoulder. He had to stand close to her make out the small font. She had put on the perfume he had come to think of at his favourite, and its flowery scent filled his nose. Her curly black hair tickled his cheek and he blew at a strand that was in the way. Camille’s free hand sneaked around her back to close around Richard’s and pull it over her stomach. She leaned back against his chest, carefully keeping her left shoulder off his wound.  
     “For a woman in a wheelchair who lives alone with her husband, she was suspiciously uninterested in the case” Camille mused.  
      “And look here – each of the four calls lasted less than a minute and happened only in the first three days of her reporting him missing. She wasn’t even persistent, either” Richard added. He reached around Camille to her desk and picked up the rest of the file. “They dropped the case because there was zero evidence. No signs of a break-in, no ransom note, not even any sign that he simply left his wife. He just vanished, and no-one seemed to care. Rachel Bryce was the only person to call and inquire about him”. Richard detached himself from Camille which prompted a grumbled protest from her. He picked up the marker to complete the case on the whiteboard. Before the felt tip touched the board, Richard hesitated. There was this guy, moving alone with his spouse to Saint-Marie, and then he goes missing and not even his wife seemed very much interested in his safe return. Would Camille ever get _that_ tired of him? He had had his life mapped out before him: keep up the detective work, retire, settle down in a nice little cottage somewhere in England. Preferably with the next neighbours about ten kilometres off in either direction. There had never been a partner in his calculations, much less a wife. Would Camille ever even _consider_ moving to England with him? Or was this a step she wasn’t willing to take for him? Where did she draw a line? Where did _he_?  
     “Richard?” Camille said softly close to his ear. “Stop churning and write”. She rested her chin on his shoulder, then placed her hand over his that held the marker and set it against the whiteboard, making a blotchy dot.  
     Richard turned his head, his cheek rubbing against Camille’s in the process. “I wasn’t churning” he told her. “Simply ... musing”.  
     “Your eyebrows had a _rendez-vous_ with the bridge of your nose, _chéri_ ” Camille countered. “What’s bothering you?”  
     Richard shook his head and Camille retreated. “Later” he simply told her and she left it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to my mom whom I pestered with weird texts about disjointed body parts and who helped me without questioning her daughter's sanity or motives.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this is actually fun.

Fidel and Dwayne returned an hour later with a couple of witness reports and photos of a bloodied torso. They had sent it straight to the coroner who made a quick test and confirmed that it _also_ belong to Alan Bryce. Which, at this point, didn’t surprise Richard anymore.  
     On the photos, the torso looked as though Alan Bryce had been recently deceased, with the skin still mostly intact. It _also_ had a nicely visible bullet hole, right through the heart. Dwayne and Fidel had found the torso near where the hand had turned up, deeper within the brushwood that surrounded the area.   
     “The couple who had reported the hand said they had been hiking along the same trail two weeks ago. The man who found the foot bones hadn’t been this way before. He’s a tourist, first time on saint-Marie” Dwayne said, consulting his own notepad.   
      Richard let out a frustrated growl. “How can several pieces of a person die over the span of a year?” He peered at the photo, letting his finger brush over the bullet hole. “At least we have a solid guess what the cause of death was”.  
     “But where’s the rest of him?” Fidel added. “And when exactly did he die?”  
     “There’s no use” Dwayne sighed. “We need to upturn the whole bloody island”.   
     “My intuition says it was the wife who killed him” Camille said. “Besides, there is no-one else that Alan and Rachel Bryce seemed to be close to. We can’t connect any of the witnesses who had testified during the missing person case to the Bryces. And they seemed to have cut all ties with England. Only … _why?_ Why would his wife, confined to a wheelchair, kill the _only_ person she has on Saint-Marie?”  
     Richard was still captivated by the photo. The bullet hole had a strange shape … “Fidel? Can you get the Bryces’ bank accounts? From before and after Alan Bryce went missing”. Fidel nodded and vanished behind his computer screen.   
     Richard pinned the photo of the torso next to the pictures of the severed limbs.

The four of them stood around a fuming Rachel Bryce in the old lady’s living room. The tiny woman somehow still managed to stare them down. Richard returned her dark look, hands behind his back.  
     “You must admit, Mrs Bryce, that it was rather obvious that you’d be our prime suspect” he started.  
     “Prime suspect! _Bah_!” the woman shot back.  
     “If no-one else on Saint-Marie – or in England, for that matter – had any close contact to you or your husband, who would develop enough rancour to kill Alan Bryce, chop his body up and scatter it across the island?”. He lifted his eyebrows at her. “Only you”. Richard held out a hand and Camille handed him several sheets of paper. “The _Who_ was the easy part; the _Why_ , however, had eluded me for quite some time. Until I had a look at your bank account. Which, surprisingly, skyrocketed once your husband was gone five years ago”. Rachel Bryce turned her head away from Richard, her jaw working silently. Richard looked down on the papers. “You weren’t horribly interested in getting your husband back, but you _were_ very persistent with the bank to get access to his account. Your husband skimmed your pension, didn’t he? He transferred everything you got due to your disability – which was quite a substantial sum”.  
     Rachel Bryce wheeled her chair around, her eyes on fire. “That filthy thief! He kept me locked up in the house for almost fifteen years! Took away the ramps so I couldn’t leave! Took my money, too! _My_ money!”  
     “So you disappeared him into the freezer, am I right?” Richard told her coldly. Dwayne and Camille exchanged a surprised look and Fidel only looked grim. “The bullet hole-“ Richard held up a new photo of the torso which now showed a red stick poking from the wound “- has a strange angle. As if someone had shot from, say, sitting in a wheelchair. But then you couldn’t drag the whole body away. So you chopped him up, stowed the parts in your freezer and disposed of them during the last years. Thus they turned up in various states of decomposition”. Richard gave the woman one last look of contempt before he signalled Dwayne and Fidel to arrest her.

~~~~

“You know, the percentage of murders as measured by the number of people on Saint-Marie is alarmingly high” Richard told Camille over the rim of his tea cup.  
     Camille shot him an apologetic look, the bottle of beer on her lips. She took a healthy sip while it was still cold before she answered: “One should think the fact that we have a brilliant Detective Inspector who solves every single case would have made the rounds by now”. That prompted a self-satisfied look from Richard.   
     The two of them sat side by side on Richard’s veranda. Richard in his suit and leather shoes, Camille in colourful culottes and a sleeveless blouse. She watched as Harry the lizard chased a frantic bug across the balustrade and then around a corner, out of sight.   
     “It’s still troubling” Richard added. He put his tea cup down on its saucer and squinted against the setting sun.   
     “Well, at least we don’t run out of work”. Camille shrugged. She let her eyes linger on Richard, hoping in vain he’d get the hint.   
     “That’s a curious paradox, isn’t it? We work to prevent crime, but if we succeeded, we’d be out of a job” he mused, staring out across the beach.   
     “And then you would return to London?” Camille asked him, driving home the point this time.   
     Richard turned his head towards her. He had a contemplative look on his face. “If you came with me … ” He let the sentence trail away, took a breath and added: “I came back after escorting Vicky Woodward for a reason, Camille. I don’t intend to change that”.   
     Camille gazed at the man in the chair opposite of her. His face began to line with age, his features seemed constantly drawn in worry or disapproval. Despite his reluctance to adapt to pretty much _anything_ on this paradise island, he had come a long way. And most of that cumulated in the fact that he hadn’t stayed in Great Britain after all.   
     “Would you stay here, with me?” Camille inquired softly.   
     “Would you come to England with me?” Richard countered. He looked more worried than usual.  
      Camille didn’t hesitate. “Yes” she told him “I would. _P_ _arce que je t'aime_ ”  
      Richard groaned in frustration. “Camille, _English_!” he pleaded.  
      Camille took a contemplative sip from her beer, smiling around its lid. Her eyes didn’t leave Richard’s face when she put the bottle down on the table and nimbly got up. Two steps brought her to his chair. She leaned down and took his face between her hands. His cheeks were warm under her beer-cold fingers. “Because I love you, Richard Poole” Camille told him in perfectly clear English.  
     It was funny. Speaking the words in English made her stomach flip. French was her mother tongue, yet it also was a shield, a way to keep secrets from Richard, even as she said them.   
     Richard rose to meet her. The kiss he placed on her lips was a vast improvement from his first, timid peck. Richard was very much capable of showing passion; he just needed to be taught how. But after their night together, Camille thought he was already much more open. Before Richard stood upright, she gently pushed him back into the chair. Then she climbed into his lap. The wood creaked as she placed her knees next to his upper thighs, effectively trapping him. Richard pulled her towards him eagerly. Camille steadied herself by his jacket’s lapels. She rolled her hips experimentally against him. Richard grabbed Camille’s waist and pushed her from his lap. When he stood up after her, his pupils were dilated. He ran one hand over his hair and glanced towards his bed through the shack’s open shutter doors. “I don’t think Harry minds … “ Richard ventured and despite her anticipation, Camille broke down with laughter.  
     Still smiling, Camille fell backwards on Richard’s bed, dragging him down with her. His eyes smiled back at her, too; those brilliant, intriguing green eyes. They held so much intelligence and beauty, yet were squinting in discontent so very often. But now, Richard’s eyes were warm, and Camille didn’t need to feel his body to know that he was ready to give himself to her.  
       Still a little shy, Richard unbuttoned her blouse while she worked his tie loose. “Please don’t destroy my shirt this time” he told her in such a grave voice that Camille gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. Although she took care to aim at the one that wasn’t wounded.   
     Richard hesitated at the last bottom and glanced behind him. “What’s wrong?” Camille breathed.   
     “Hold on a second” he answered and then climbed off the bed. Camille propped herself up on her elbows and watched as Richard carefully closed the shack’s shutters. Then he made quick work with his belt and stepped out of his pants before he climbed back on top of her. Camille lifted her head for a kiss and then pushed Richard’s hands down to the buttons of her culottes. He got the drift, mercifully, quickly this time. Camille snapped her own bra open with one hand and flung it, along with her slip and Richard’s boxer shorts, somewhere across the room.  
     The shack had gone dark, almost too dark to make out details. Perhaps it was what encouraged Richard, or that he already knew her body as he did. The first time they had slept with each other, Camille hadn’t been shy to show and tell Richard exactly what she liked and wanted. He remembered that now, she realized. Although his eyes rarely left hers, locked in an intense gaze that sought constant confirmation. It seemed to Camille that Richard’s hands explored not just for the sake of her pleasure, but for his own curiosity. She rolled on her back and stretched out beneath him, giving herself up to his exploration. Camille watched as his white hands travelled over her brown skin, almost swallowed by the darkness. He lay on his side next to her and let his eyes track his fingers. She didn’t know if he really knew much about touching a woman, but the care he took with the sensitive parts of her body made both her loins and her heart ache for this man. The swell of her breasts fascinated him as much as the hollow of her collarbone, the curve of her hips. Camille watched as he let his fingers slide over her upper thigh and then around it and when he pushed inside her, she had to close her eyes and bite her lip.  
     Camille rolled to her side and pressed herself against Richard’s fingers. She could hear his breath quicken as he moved his hand between her legs. She reached down and slapped his hand away to signal him that this wasn’t all she wanted of him.   
     Richard nodded silently and moved his hip to meet her wish. When he slid inside her properly, Camille breathed out against his shoulder. His fingers might bring her to a climax quickly, but this, this was almost spiritual. A connection beyond simple sex for pleasure. She loved this man, and perhaps her feelings were charged up by the hormones racing through system right now, but Richard was so much more than all the lovers she had taken to bed before him, sometimes only for a night. He pushed up inside her and Camille swung her leg over his hip to meet his rhythm.   
       Their lovemaking was still careful, but there was hint of ferocity in Richard’s thrusts that Camille hadn’t felt the night before. It was as if he was tired of holding back, too, despite the pain in his shoulder. Camille submitted to his lead this time, going as fast or hard as Richard dared.   
     Sweat made the hairs on his chest stick together as Camille let her hands roam over his skin. He rolled her on her back and settled between her legs. His eyebrows were creased as if in concentration, but his eyes had gone glassy. Camille moved her own hips to meet him and for a second, Richard’s eyes widened in surprise. Camille smiled shakily, feeling her own climax build as she saw the same in his features. Then she closed her eyes and gave herself over to his touch, his smell, the sounds he made until all of it pushed her over the edge with a cry. A few more frantic thrusts and Richard followed her, muffling his moans in the curls of her hair.   
      Richard deflated on top of her and Camille bore his weight for a few seconds while catching her own breath. He was a heavy man and she had to move out from under him to take a deep breath. Richard sat up and mumbled something before he disappeared in the direction of the bathroom. Camille rolled over to the other side to watch him pad away. She sighed. He still wouldn’t look at her after sex. Well. There was plenty of time to work on that.

Camille had fallen asleep before Richard had returned from the bathroom. She woke some time in the middle of the night from the stinging pain of his arm draped right across her breasts. Camille wiggled out from underneath it and kneeled up on the mattress. She peered around the sleeping form of her Inspector to where the clock stood on Richard’s nightstand. It was just past one. Camille suppressed a sigh. Sleep had fled her, so she debated for a few seconds before she tapped towards the toilet and then roamed around Richard’s kitchen for a glass of water. When she had taken care of him during his sickness, Camille had quickly learned where Richard kept his tableware. She hoped she didn’t make too much noise while she filled a glass with tab water. Camille had worn dark red underwear which proved to be something of a mistake, as she had no idea where she had thrown her panties. Richard’s white shirt, however, was easier to spot in the darkness. She picked it up, shrugged it on and headed for the veranda.  
     The night was warm and quiet. The cicadas had exhausted themselves and the only sounds were the waves lapping gently against the beach. Richard’s shirt came down to the middle of her thighs and smelled of his aftershave. She hugged it tight across her chest and buried her nose is its collar for a few seconds, breathing in his scent. Then she settled down into one of the chairs, sipping her water and closed her eyes to listen to the ocean.

Camille was slipping in and out of a slumber when the sound of Richard’s voice startled her fully awake.   
     “I thought you might have left” he told her, sounding too awake. Camille jumped and turned in the chair to see him standing next to her, clad only in his boxer shorts and running a hand over his unruly hair. His face was crewed up in his usual mask of dismay and concern.  
      Camille looked up at him. “Why should I leave?” she asked him, a little hurt. Had he so little faith in her? Had she not told him, more than once, what she felt for him?   
      Richard shrugged. He hugged himself, despite the warm night. “I still haven’t figured out what a woman with you wants with a man like me” he admitted.   
     Camille reached out to fish for his hand and drew him over to stand before her. “Richard Poole. How often do I have to tell you – “ she started, but Richard interrupted her.   
      He held up a finger. “No, don’t”.   
     Camille felt her heart sink. She held her breath, not knowing what to say instead.  
     He bent down to squat in front of her, his hands enclosed by Camille’s and resting in her lap. Richard regarded her for a few moments, contemplative. By the light of the moon, Camille saw that there were lines around his mouth. His brow was slightly drawn. Richard looked much like he was solving a case, piecing together a puzzle. He let his eyes travel over her body and a smile began to tug at his lips. “I see you get the hang of finally dressing properly” he told her offhandedly. “A nice tie, a good suit, Camille I love you”.   
     He said it so quickly, and so unexpectedly that the words caught Camille completely off guard. More from shock than anything else she leaned forward and stared at Richard. Then she remembered to breathe. Richard’s head was bent to study their hands in her lap. Camille looked down and only now realized that he had her fingers in a vicelike grip.   
     “I told you I’m horrible at this” he mumbled at Camille’s knees. Camille slid forward and off the chair to kneel before Richard. “I’m just – I haven’t had much practise, and, well, you don’t say these things so often or light heartedly, or you shouldn’t, in my opinion, and I figured –“ he stammered hastily until Camille stopped him with a kiss on his lips. She drew back to look him in the eyes.  
     “You already told me” she whispered. “Didn’t you?” Their hands were still entwined, Richard holding on to her like a lifeline.   
     He gave her a lopsided, shaky smile. “Apparently with a terrible cover-up” he admitted.  
  
Camille had waited on Richard’s veranda, a beer clutched in her hands and the dreadful sight of his packed suitcase in the corner of her eyes. Richard had prattled on about the weather in England and what to pack. Camille hadn’t been able to wipe the look of apprehension and sadness from her face. She hadn’t cared if Richard noticed.   
     “But you will be back on Friday?” she had asked him, and he had given her some evasive reply about that being the plan, but then again, things might change and anyway, being here hadn’t really been the idea in the first place.   
     Camille had rolled her eyes at him when he disappeared inside once more to collect his sweater. When he had come back out he was fumbling with the piece of clothing.   
     “I mean, not that I haven’t loved it, you know… “ he had told her. Richard had paused then, something flickering across his face. There had been a sadness and a longing, just for a fleeting split-second. “And you” he had added and had let the words hang in the air before hastily adding: “All of you, you know, the gang … loved every minute of it”.  
      He had told her then, in his way. And despite everything, she had still believed he wouldn’t come back.

And now that man squatted before her in his underwear, his hands clenched around hers, cheeks flushed. His green eyes glistening in the moonlight. And Camille knew in that moment that he would always come back. For her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, friends! I’ve a little fluffy epilogue in stock, too, so stay tuned a while longer if you like.  
> You know, as much as I hated the showrunners’ decision to simply kill Richard off like that, it couldn’t have been any other way. The end of his character arc was that he came back to Saint-Marie (and, IMHO, to Camille) when he had the chance to stay in London. If they had simply sent him back to England (or somewhere else), it would have negated that development. Killing Richard was the only option to write out the character without undoing his arc. Even though it was done a bit bluntly.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t resist this, I’m sorry!

Days became weeks and a sense of blissful routine gradually settled in at the Honoré police station. Richard gained back full flexibility of his left arm and as soon as the stitches were taken out, virtually no sign of the attack on him remained. Soon, the topic didn’t even come up any more. Richard was glad for it, too. Albeit he would never be able to forget it, he didn’t need a daily reminder of his almost-death.   
     Despite Saint-Marie’s easy openness, Richard just couldn’t bring himself to let other people know about his relationship with Camille. He still had to work on his own role in it, having to learn to let her take down years of sturdy walls, sometimes brick by brick. To announce this to the world, to people he had to deal with daily on a professional basis, wasn’t something Richard was ready to face just yet.   
     Camille respected this wish, although he could tell that she would be more comfortable if she didn’t have to keep her distance from in public.   
     So they played the bickering friends when they were at the police station and Richard took more notice of his newspaper or tea when they were at the bar.   
  
This charade – of course – failed spectacularly.  
  
     When Camille and Richard went to Catherine’s Bar after work one night, Catherine hovered around the pair with the air of a five-year-old bursting to tell of her newest discovery. It was the first time in weeks that neither Dwayne, nor Fidel had time to accompany them. So Camille’s mother jumped on the occasion like a lioness on a piece of fresh meat.   
     Catherine Bordey either seemed to have a sixth sense, or her daughter had confided in her after all. Either way, Catherine’s initially innocent questions soon mutated into wanting to know how many grandchildren she could expect and whether Richard wanted to marry in London or on Saint-Marie. Camille nearly spit her beer across the table at that point and gave her mother a rude look. Catherine ceased her endless inquisition, but went back behind the bar with a smile nevertheless.  
  
A couple of days after that, Dwayne sat reclined in his chair, hand on his chin and let uncomfortably suspicious eyes linger on Richard. Fidel and Camille were running some errands and Richard felt decidedly trapped with the grinning man in the corner.    
    “What?” Richard sighed eventually and threw his hands in the air.  
    “You know, I have this new girl” Dwayne started. “She lives out by the sea, quite close your place, Chief. And when I go and visit her after work, I _always_ see the police jeep at your shack these days”.  
     Richard shrugged and shot Dwayne a look. “So?” he mumbled.  
    “So I thought, maybe our Chief finally brought himself to get behind the wheel. What with you suddenly _not_ leaving for England and all. But then it’s always _Camille_ who still drives you to the station each morning…. “ he let the sentence trail away.   
     “I’m taking driving lessons in the evening” Richard told him dryly.   
     “Yes, I’m sure you do, Chief” Dwayne answered with a grin.

A few weeks later, Camille dashed past Fidel towards the toilet for the third time in an hour.   
     “Chief, I don’t think Camille is doing so well. Maybe you should send her home for the day?” Fidel noted, concern in his voice.  
     Richard looked up from behind his monitor. He shrugged, unfazed. “It’s probably just food poisoning. It’s bound to happen, with all this seafood you’re so horribly fond of”. With that, he hid behind the computer once more, hoping Fidel would buy it.  
      When Camille came back, Fidel put a hand on her shoulder and asked her if she wouldn’t rather lie down.   
     From the corner of his eyes, Richard saw that Camille shook her head and dismissed the suggestions with a wave of her hand. Richard more felt than saw her gaze bore into his forehead, right through the protection of his computer screen. He peered around its edge, ducking his head.   
      “Well, maybe Fidel is right” he said lightly. “Maybe you should lie down?”  
     Camille rolled her eyes and heaved an exasperated sigh. “For how long, _Sir_?” she asked him icily. There was unspoken pleading in her eyes. Richard felt his heart sink. She _so_ wanted to tell them. They were her friends, after all. Well, _their_ friends, he supposed. Richard stood up slowly from his chair. He scratched his cheek uncertainly.   
     “I fear it’s somewhat my fault that Camille isn’t feeling well” he told Fidel haltingly. At the back of the room, Dwayne had perked up and listened. The grin on his face was far too knowing, Richard thought. He shot the man a pleading a look that said ‘for heaven’s sake _please_ shut up’  
     “Did you try to cook again?” Fidel asked him sympathetically.   
     Richard grimaced. “Not recently”, he said. Richard searched for Camille’s eyes to meet his, and when they did, he took courage from the look she gave him. He stepped towards her. The tips of fingers brushed against Camille’s ever so slightly.  
     Fidel’s eyes still widened at the sight. Then he let them wander towards Camille’s belly. There was no visible sign yet, but she wouldn’t be able to hide it for much longer.  
     “I had one solid good reason to return to Saint-Marie and stay” Richard said. His voice was firm. He closed his hand around Camille’s who squeezed his in turn. “Now I have two”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> la fin! Thank you for all the comments, criticism and kudos. What started as a two-page doodle to work around Richard's death scene turned into a proper story in the end. I had such fun writing it, and I hope you had an even better time reading it. The BBC wasted their characters. But I will always be happy and grateful to know that there are a few clever souls out there that understand the potential Richard and Camille had. Never let that go :).

**Author's Note:**

> I'll post a chapter every Sunday, so stay tuned !


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